Empire Day
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: On the first anniversary of the Empire, both Vader and Ben Kenobi make personal journeys to either remember the past...or to forget it.


**_In loving memory of my mom_**

 ** _1961-2012_**

 ** _Vader_**

Rain pelting your body in a sharp, ceaseless barrage, you trudge across the empty walkway, totally alone. You can sense other beings nearby; within the opulent buildings and structures looming above you, you can feel the steady hum of countless lives in the Force. But none of them, not a single one, is out here with you. Most likely, they just want to remain comfortable, warm, dry—and that's perfectly alright with you. Solitude is something you've not only grown accustomed to over the years, but have grown to enjoy—even long for. After all, it is the only thing you have left. Or, more precisely, _you_ are all that you have. Everything else, whether it be friends, family, or simply happiness, has been long since turned to ash.

But then again, maybe you don't even have that. Maybe you actually did lose yourself, like a house that's torn been down so that a bigger, better one can take its place. Only in this case, the larger house does not necessarily mean a better one—quite the opposite, in fact. This house has no windows, no doors, so light never touches its interior. Never warms it, leaving it cold, frozen, inaccessible. Empty.

Sometimes, you wish you could it tear it down, incinerate it, and start over. You wish you could build a new you, a kinder, warmer version of yourself—or, better yet, you wish that you could be who you once were. After all, that person wouldn't be here, rain streaming down his dark armor in icy sheets as he navigates the empty street. He'd be like all of the people you sense now: he'd be inside one of these buildings, enveloped in the warmth of people he loved.

But moments like that—when you long to return to what you were—don't happen very often. And why would they? Like a holy man driving out demons, you've made sure that every trace of who you were has been purged from your memory, turning your mind into a veritable blank slate.

Until today.

For the past year, you've worked hard to forget. Sometimes, it was difficult, because the past was pulling, tugging at you with everything it had. It became like a river—no, an ocean—trying to snatch you up in its current, and you found that all-too often, you weren't strong enough to resist. For days on end, you'd be driven downstream; you would be carried along in a sea of memories, each one driving against you like a tidal wave. In those moments, you'd want to breathe, but you often found that you couldn't—the waves had pushed you below the surface yet again. Had submerged you. Opening your mouth, trying to draw the next breath, would only mean drowning. Would only mean that everything would end, once and for all.

But today, you allow yourself to indulge in the past, if only for a moment. Instead of recoiling from the reminders of what transpired last year—a year ago today, precisely—you let them wash over you, engulfing you in a shrine of the past. You don't avert your eyes from the flashing holosigns that read "HAPPY FIRST EMPIRE DAY," from the gaudy decorations and lights have been strung up about the city, only to wilt under the rain. You don't even try to fight the current anymore; you just turn your back to it, letting it sweep you off your feet and carry you downstream.

Today, you want to remember.

 ** _Ben_**

The twins suns bearing down on you like a hammer, you plod across what seem to be endless tracks of sand, alone save for the eopie you've just tied to a fence. A blast of wind strikes your face, scouring your skin with the sand grains it carries in its current. You try to guard yourself against another blow, tugging your hood lower on your face, but you soon give up; the wind and sand just keeps finding its way in. The desert is relentless like that, you've learned: when it seems like it can't possibly make the world bleaker or more unpleasant, it finds a way. If something fresh and green springs up, it dries it out, bakes it under the heat of the twin suns. If something decides to live, it kills it; if something is dying, it ensures that its miserable existence lingers on indefinitely.

Sometimes, you wonder if the desert is trying to do that to you, if it's deliberately prolonging your suffering. Not that you're necessarily opposed to that; in fact, you almost welcome pain these days. It's deserved, after what you did. Or, more precisely, after what you failed to do.

The pain feels like atonement.

For each and every day this past year, you haven't been able to shake the reminders of your failure. When you look at the hovel you now call home, you remember that because of you, the temple where you were raised is now empty. Devoid of life. When you see a family at the local supply store, you're reminded that you were once insistent that remaining detached was the only way to be uncorrupted, only to discover—too late—that the inverse was true. Whenever the night is clear and the tapestry of star looms large overhead, you recall the little boy who was determined to see all the planets orbiting those stars…before you and your Jedi dogmatism crushed his soul.

In a way, it crushed your soul, too. When you were younger, you could love, could actually feel things without feeling as though you were betraying the Jedi way; but once you got older, that all changed. Emotions of any kind—even the mixture of paternal and fraternal love you felt for the boy you trained—were to be tamped down, suppressed, and extinguished before you lost control. Before you went dark. But again, the opposite was apparently true: by distancing yourself from others, you allowed yourself to become complacent, apathetic, and aloof, to the point that being a Jedi was an end in itself. That is, you weren't a Jedi because you wanted to help people; you helped people because that was what a good Jedi was supposed to do. And there was nothing more you wanted than to become a good Jedi, because not being one—being less than perfect-would mean rejection. It happened when you were a child, after all, when the Masters decided you were better suited to the AgriCorps. So what was to stop it from happening again?

Ironically, the one thing you wanted to be a part of—the thing you wanted to be—is gone: the Jedi are no more.

And more ironically still, you were partly responsible for their downfall.

True, Anakin made his own decisions; in the end, it was his decision to join Sidious, not yours. And yet you can't help but feel as though you helped him along. Not by teaching him to be evil, of course—but by teaching him to be what you once thought was good. You were the one who trained him to distance himself, to close himself, detach himself from everything. You were the one forced him to seek affection from a man like Sidious because when he was younger, you withheld it from him. And when he was older, you were the one who chose not to see how frightened he was of losing someone close to him or not belonging; doing so would've meant that you had failed at being the perfect Jedi, after all. Would've meant that you hadn't taught him to be as aloof and self-contained as Jedi are supposed to be.

That's most likely why he hated you so much, in the end. Although you never actually told him this, your training sent the implicit message that because Anakin was different from the other Jedi—because he was still able to feel emotions strongly, vibrantly—he was a bad Jedi. A Jedi who didn't belong. Like the Masters who had deemed you unworthy when you were a child, you imparted the idea that Anakin was an outsider—and because he thought himself to be an outsider, he sought refuge in the person who would end up stripping him of everything.

If Anakin had felt that he had truly belonged, he wouldn't have had a reason to find acceptance from Sidious.

But that's only one of your many regrets. You should know, after all; over the past year, you've kept a detailed record of them in your mind. Every day, you start your morning by listing all the ways you've failed—and then you search out a few more. It's almost been an addiction for you, in a way, this obsession to grasp every aspect of your failure. And it would almost be unusual, except that it makes sense in a strange, unseemly way. The regret brings a fresh wave of pain; the pain makes you feel as though you are paying for how you failed; and paying for your failure means that maybe someday, you'll make up for what you did wrong.

Today, though, isn't a day for atonement. Yes, it is the day that your errors culminated into one big tragedy for the galaxy; it's the first anniversary of the Empire's birth, after all, which happens to be the day that your failure with Anakin killed both the Republic and the Jedi. But it's also a day to look forward to the one thing you're proud of, the one thing you cherish in this life.

Today, you want to leave the weight of your past mistakes behind.

Today, you want to forget.

 ** _Vader_**

After what seems like an eternity trudging through the rain, you catch sight of your intended destination. The place looks odd, in a way, as though it somehow doesn't belong; planted in the midst of a sea of gilded towers and palaces, it almost looks too simple to be here. Where the structures around you extend far overhead, brushing the sky, this location is almost completely flat. Only a single structure can be seen jutting out of the ground—a small stained glass panel, standing a little under two meters high. In the sunlight, the panel would probably cast an array of color onto the ground, transforming the surrounding area into a palette of light. Right now, however, the panel is dull, lifeless, refusing to share its color with the plain, unadorned marble platform set beneath it.

You stop for a moment and stand there, watching it. Debating whether or not you should approach. Yes, you came all this way to see it—you came all the way from Coruscant, in fact—but now that you're here, you're not sure if you actually want to be near it. Somehow, it seems as if simply touching it, brushing it with one of your black, gloved hands would overwhelm you, drown you in a fresh wave of pain. Would break you down after all the hard work you've done to piece yourself together. But then a phrase from your past echoes in your mind, reminding you that moments like this—moments when your existence seems to consist entirely of suffering—will be the sinew which holds you together, keeping you from falling apart.

 _"_ _Fear leads anger_ ," the voice from the past whispers. " _Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to pain. Pain leads to suffering. The path to the dark side, that is._ "

If suffering leads to the dark side, then pain won't make you weaker; it will bring you to life.

Surrendering yourself to the tide of anticipated pain, you begin making your way toward the marble platform. Although the rain is still striking against you like a shrapnel spray, you no longer trudge your way forward, as if you were so weak that something as insignificant as a storm could hold you at bay. Instead, you stride forward confidently, shoulders erect and head held high. You're not a man about to enter into his own personal hell; you're a man who's going to leap into hell and come out the other side, aflame with a power so potent even hellfire would covet it.

As you draw closer to the platform, you can see that it isn't as empty as you first thought. Strewn across the startlingly white surface is a collection of what you can only describe as junk: stuffed children's toys that reek of mildew, wilting flowers, hand-written letters that have been rendered unreadable by the rain. Candles, whose flames are long-dead. Necklaces that have snapped, resulting in a conglomeration of mismatched beads and charms. Some people have even dumped republic credits—which were rendered null and void at the birth of the Empire-at the foot of the stained glass panel, as if making an offering to some god or goddess.

And then you see it: something new, something that hasn't been left out here for weeks or months.

A single white flower.

As far as flowers go, it isn't anything special. It isn't some rare species or hybrid that would take a fortune to breed; in fact, it's pretty generic. Commonplace. Mundane. The petals are plain white, simple—and so fresh that you wonder if they were freshly picked from one of the hanging gardens lining the street.

That's when you first sense that you're not alone in this place. Everyone else, of course, is still inside, is still trying to keep out of the rain. But one person, for whatever reason, has decided to venture outside. Is willing to brave the downpour and come here, to what you can only think of as a shrine.

Tearing your gaze from the flower, you scan the surrounding area, looking for a sign of life. At first, you don't catch sight of anyone, which isn't a surprise; the Force often alerts you to a person's presence before the rest of your senses do. Then, after a few minutes, you see man in a drenched gray robe approaching, seemingly unaware of your presence. In his hand, he holds two flowers—and at that moment, you realize that he is probably the same man who left the white flower. The single pure, beautiful thing left at the shrine.

Then the man seems to notice you and comes to a stop. Hesitates. Most likely, he's intimidated by your appearance; when most gaze at you, all they see is a black, faceless monster towering almost two and a half meters high. A nightmarish beast that could tear them to shreds. But after a moment of wavering, the man continues forward, coming to stand on the side of the shrine opposite to you.

In that moment, you're allowed a good look at his face—and you realize that you've seen this face before. Not only that, but you _know_ this face. In your former life, he was a close ally, someone who could be trusted to remain above the swarm of corruption that seemed to be overtaking the galaxy. He was even a friend of your wife, at one time; you have a memory of seeing this man and his wife, Breha, departing from Padme's house…just as you were preparing to sneak in.

"Senator Organa," you say, more of a general statement than a greeting.

"Lord Vader," Organa says in response, lowering his hood from his head. Letting the rain stream down his face. "You're Palpatine's…enforcer, are you not?"

Instead of offering a verbal response, you simply stare at him—and at the blood-red flowers he grasps in his hand.

Noticing your stare—although how could he, since your mask doesn't show your eyes?—Organa glances down at his flowers. "I came to leave these for a friend. She's the one buried here—the senator who died the same day the Empire was born."

Ignoring your stare, Organa proceeds to lay his flowers atop the shrine, and then he gazes back at you. Although you could be mistaken, he seems to be unafraid of you, as if he's somehow seen through your shell of armor and seen the shriveled, pallid worm you've become. In fact, his dark eyes are heavy as he gazes at you, making you wonder if somehow, he knows who you were before. If he pities you for it.

"I know she's gone," the man continues, "but that doesn't mean that part of her hasn't survived. She lived to bring hope to those who had none—and I have a feeling that, even in death, she'll continue to do that. Just because a person is dead doesn't that he or she can't change the galaxy." He nods to the pair of red flowers he's laid on the shrine, directly overlaying the white flower. "That's what I put those there: as a reminder that she still has something to do for this galaxy."

It's an odd thing for him to say to you, especially considering that you've cultivated a reputation as Palpatine's most ruthless enforcer; you're not a man known for his sentiment, after all. In fact, it almost seems inappropriate for him to be disclosing this to you, since you're his superior in the Imperial chain of command. But for some reason, you find that his words have actually affected you, breaking through your stony chest to pierce your heart. In a single moment, you feel yourself overwhelmed by a feeling so potent, so moving, that you can't describe it in words—and surrender yourself to it.

"Leave us," you say, as you open yourself to the suffering that's about to come. And even though only you and Organa are the only ones there, he seems to understand what you mean.

 ** _Ben_**

Overhead, the twin suns are beginning to sink, making the heat somewhat less oppressive. If there were clouds on Tattooine, there would also be a brilliant sunset—the sky would be ablaze with color—but there aren't. The sky, as always, is devoid of even the promise of rain, meaning that the sunset merely looks like just that: the suns receding from the sky.

The Tuskens, whom you've had encounter with in the past, say that the suns are alive. More precisely, they claim that the suns sentient—two beings aware of the world around them. One sun, they say, is running; he is the first one to set, every time. The other, who is the brother of the first, pursues him. Chases him relentlessly, but to no avail. In fact, the Tuskens believe that he will never catch his brother, meaning that he is forever doomed to fail. As such, the Tuskens, who worship the second sun, cover themselves out of shame for their god's failure—and perhaps for their own. No other species, as far as you know, is so acutely aware of their own shortcomings. Their own flaws.

But while there is some virtue in being aware of one's mistakes, there is a point when one must learn to look past these errors and focus on the present, on the here and now. Staying rooted in the past—well, it won't get you far. Yes, you can use yesterday's memories to better today; after all, those who forget their past shortcomings are liable to repeat them. But you can only glance at the past for a moment, for otherwise, you will lose sight of where you are going. You might even find yourself pushing your way into the past, defying the current of time.

But just because you have turned your back to the present does not mean that it has gone away.

For the past year, you've admittedly lost sight of not only the present, but the future as well. You became so consumed with the past, with reliving each and every thing you've done or failed to do, that you forgot there was anything else. In your mind, after all, the past was all you had left; along with the bad times and failures, your greatest moments and achievement were contained in the fabric of yesterday, were stuck there. No part of it would carry over into the present, or the future—not a single moment. It was as if your life was an island, alone in the midst of a sea of memories—not because it had wanted to be isolated, but because the bridge connecting it to the mainland had been severed.

You understand, of course, that at a certain point, the majority of a person's life consists of the past. There is no other option, after all; the future, which once stretched out before a person like an open sky, eventually shrinks. Is used up, like a man who has spent the last of his strength. However, this doesn't mean that the future becomes any less important, any less meaningful. As a wise friend once told you, size doesn't matter; after all, just look at the present. It is burned up in a moment, but it remains the most vital part of existence—namely because it is the only part of it that is in your grasp. It has not yet passed you by, nor does lie ahead, on the distant horizon; it is here, with you.

It is now.

Between you and the horizon, which has almost swallowed the setting suns, you can see that present: you see a tiny, robust hovel planted in the midst of the desert. Vaporators—tall, spire-like structure that jut out of the ground like the remains of some long-dead giant—are spread around it, casting long, dark shadows across the desert floor. A few people attend to these vaporators, most likely adjusting or recalibrating their settings. These are farmhands, hired by the man who owns this homestead to help him maintain the vaporators, which is fortunate for you. If it was the land owner and not these farmhands who saw your approach, you would probably be run off the homestead already—or worse, you'd have him waving a blaster in your face, threatening what he'll do with it if you don't stay away.

One of the farmhands glances up from what he's doing, and appears to notice you. Since it's not the land owner, you don't hesitate or slow; you just keep ambling forward, nonchalant. This farmhand, after all, is new—he's never seen you before. Most likely, he's never even heard of you before, hasn't been told of the beleaguered hermit named Ben who skulks around the edges of the homestead.

"Hello there," you say, once you've gotten within a few meters of the farmhand. "I've been travelling from the Wastes all day, and I'm afraid my canteen's run dry. Would you be so kind as to fill it for me?"

The farmhand—a young, robust-looking man who has yet to sport any of the weathering marks of the desert—raises his brows. "The _Jundland_ Wastes? What were you doin' over there?"

"I live there," you reply mildly.

" _Live_ there?" The farmhand appraises you with what looks like either a newfound sense of respect, or concern about your sanity. "Man, are you crazy or somethin'? That's closest to hell you can get without leavin' the planet."

"Perhaps a little—or something." You nod toward the vaporator. "I realize water is a scarce commodity on Tattooine, but do you think you could spare a drop or two for a weary traveler? I'd rather hate to drop dead of dehydration before I even got to—what was it you called it? Ah, yes: hell."

"I'll do more than that; I'll let you stay in my quarters tonight." He gives you a look that's probably supposed to look grave, but only ends up looking pretentious on his young, boyish face. "The Jundlands ain't a place to travel alone—'specially in the dark. That's when those bloody Tuskens come out to frolic."

Suppressing a smile at the mental image his words bring to mind, you shake your head. "No need. I've travelled there alone quite a few times. As long as I have a full canteen, I should be—"

"No, no," the farmhand interjects, shaking his head. "I'd have a mighty hard time sleepin' if I you wound up getting' scalped by a Tusken or somethin' on my watch."

"That's very…touching."

"And look," the farmhand continues, as if he hasn't heard you (he probably hasn't),"if you're worried about my boss givin' a stranger a hard time, don't. He's been in real good mood these past few days. It's his nephew's first birthday, the boys tell me."

You keep your expression carefully neutral. "He must be rather close to his nephew, for him to be in such good spirits. I've only known him for a short time, but I've found that he is often… _short_ with people."

"Close? He's practically his father, is what he is! They tell me the kid's parents—Mister Lars's step-brother and sister-in-law—died after he was born or somethin', and some old coot just showed up and plopped him into Missus Lars's arms."

"Curious."

"You can say that again," the farmhand says, and then pauses. Stares at something. "Oh, would you look at that: there he is now."

Heart drumming in your chest like an artillery barrage, you at first think that he's referring to Owen, and you try to prepare yourself to bolt. Last time you were caught on this homestead, after all, the man had fired blank rounds at your retreating form. However, you quickly see that what the farmhand is staring at is much smaller than Owen—and far more hospitable.

It's a blond, healthy-looking baby, frowning comically as he tries to toddle out of the doorway of the Lars's hovel.

For a moment, you allow yourself the thought that this is what Anakin probably would've looked like as an infant, with the white-blond curls and unusually round head. True, Anakin had looked vastly different when he reached his teen and adult years; his hair had gotten so dark that it was almost brown, and his face had become surprisingly sharp and angular for a person so young. But when he had been younger—those first few years he had been your padawan—Anakin had looked like an older carbon copy of this child, with his sandy blond hair, amusingly spherical head, and clear blue eyes.

If you had actually been Anakin Skywalker's biological father—as opposed to the man who simply trained him—this is what you would've seen.

But as soon as the thought occurs, you remind yourself that this isn't why you're here: you haven't come to think of what might have been. Quite the opposite, in fact. Today, you came to not only forget all of that, to put it far behind you, but to remember that there are some good things left in the galaxy. Or, more specifically, that there's still on thing worth clinging onto—something that isn't in the past, but is right in front of you.

And so close to you that you could even walk toward it, hold it.

Noticing how your gaze lingers on the child, the farmhand glances back at you. "You have any family or anything out there in the Jundland? 'Magine they'd have to be mighty crazy, too, to live out there with you."

"Not in the Jundland, no," you say, still watching the baby's clumsy attempts to walk. "But elsewhere, yes—I do have a family."

And as you both stand there, the twins suns giving off the last of their light, you know that he will never truly understand what you mean.

 ** _Psalm 30:5b: Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning._**


End file.
